by Zaires, Anna
It’s coming from outside.
Finally.
Leaving the laptop on a coffee table in the living room, I hurry to the front door and step out into the cool, misty darkness. It’s no longer raining, but the air still holds a damp chill, with thick clouds blocking all hint of moonlight. If not for the light spilling from the windows and the solar path lights lining each side of the driveway, it would be too dark to see. As is, it’s still more than a little creepy, and I wrap my arms around myself to stop from shivering as I walk toward the back of the house, following the sound of voices.
I find Alina and Lyudmila sitting on a pair of boulders near the edge of the cliff, a small fire crackling merrily in front of them. They’re laughing and talking in Russian—and, I realize as I get closer, sharing a joint.
The grassy smell of pot is unmistakable.
At my approach, they fall silent, Lyudmila regarding me with open dismay and Alina wearing her usual enigmatic expression. Taking a deep drag, Nikolai’s sister slowly blows out the smoke and holds out the joint to me. “Want some?”
I hesitate before gingerly taking it from her. “Sure, thanks.” I’m no stranger to pot, having smoked more than my fair share my freshman year of college, but it’s been a while since I’ve had any.
It used to help me relax, though, and I could use that tonight.
I sit on a boulder next to Alina and inhale a lungful of smoke, enjoying the acrid, grassy taste, then pass the joint to wary-looking Lyudmila. Alina murmurs something to her in Russian, and the other woman visibly relaxes. Taking a drag, she passes the joint to Alina, who takes a drag and passes it to me, and we go like that in a circle, smoking in companionable silence until only a small, useless stub remains.
“I told her you won’t rat us out to my brother.” Alina drops the stub into the fire and watches the resulting explosion of sparks. “Or her husband.”
“They don’t like pot?” My voice is raspy and mellow, my mind pleasantly fuzzy. Even the prospect of upsetting my employer doesn’t faze me right now, though I know it should. Besides, Alina is technically my employer too, and she offered me the joint, so I’m not at fault. Or am I? Maybe only Nikolai is my employer, after all?
It’s hard to think straight.
“Nikolai can be… uptight about certain things. And Pavel doesn’t keep secrets from him.” Alina nudges a glowing ember with the tip of her shoe, and I hazily register the fact that she’s wearing stilettos and a blue cocktail dress that would be perfect for an art gallery opening. Her only concession to the wilderness surrounding us is a white faux fur draped around her slender shoulders—presumably to keep out the chill. She’s also wearing her usual lipstick and eyeliner.
“Lyudmila said you had a headache,” I say before I can think better of it. “Do you dress up and put on makeup even when you’re sick?”
Alina laughs softly and lights another joint. Taking a drag, she offers it to Lyudmila, who does the same and offers it to me. I start reaching for it but change my mind. I know from experience that I’m about as mellow as I’m going to get; anything more will just make me slow-witted. Not that I’m not already—that first joint was potent stuff, as strong as anything I’ve tried. Besides, there was a reason I came out here, and it wasn’t to get stoned.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say, pulling my hand back, and with a shrug, Lyudmila returns the joint to Alina.
I watch the flames crackle and dance while the two of them smoke and converse in Russian. I wish I spoke the language so I could understand them, but I don’t and the smooth rhythm of their speech reminds me of a burbling mountain stream, the words flowing into one another, defying comprehension.
Is that what it’s like for Slava when I speak? Or for Lyudmila?
Is that what it was like for my mom when she was first brought to America from Cambodia?
She’d never spoken much about her early years; all I know is that she was adopted by the missionary couple when she was around Slava’s age. I’d never pressed her for details, not wanting to evoke any bad memories. I’d figured we’d have a lifetime to talk about whatever, and she’d tell me eventually, if there was anything to tell.
I was a short-sighted idiot.
I should’ve learned everything there was to know about my mom when I had the chance.
Alina’s laughter catches my attention, and I shift my gaze from the dancing flames to her face, studying each striking feature. It would be easy to envy her, both for her extraordinary beauty and her wealth, but for some reason, I don’t get the impression that Nikolai’s sister is particularly happy. Even now, when she must be more than a little high, there’s a brittle edge to her laughter… a peculiar fragility underneath her glossy façade. And maybe it’s the glow of firelight softening the porcelain perfection of her skin, but tonight, she seems younger than the mid-to-late twenties I pegged her for.
Much younger.
“How old are you?” I blurt, suddenly worried I might’ve accepted pot from a teenager. A split second later, I recall that she finished Columbia, so she has to be at least my age, but it’s too late to take back my overly personal question.
To my relief, Alina doesn’t seem to think it inappropriate. “Twenty-four,” she replies in a dreamy tone. “Twenty-five next week.” Her eyes slightly out of focus, she reaches over and touches my hair, rubbing one strand between her fingers. “Anyone ever mention you look a bit like Zoë Kravitz?” Not waiting for a reply, she trails her fingertips over my jaw. “I can see why my brother wants you. So pretty… so sweet and fresh…”
Laughing awkwardly, I swat her hand away. “You are so stoned.” I can feel Lyudmila’s gaze on us, curious and judging, and my face warms as I reflect on how much of Alina’s words she’s understood—and what she already knows. These two seem to be good friends, and I wouldn’t be surprised if at least some of their earlier laughter was at my expense.
“Extremely stoned,” Alina agrees, throwing the second stub into the fire. “But that doesn’t change the facts.” Propping her elbows on her knees, she leans in, firelight dancing in her eyes as she says quietly, “Don’t fall for him, Chloe. He’s not your white knight.”
I draw back. “I’m not looking for a—”
“But you are.” Her voice stays soft, even as her gaze sharpens to a knife’s edge, all haziness disappearing. “You need a white knight, noble and kind and pure, a protector to cherish and love you. And my brother can’t be that for you, or for anyone. Molotov men don’t love, they possess—and Nikolai is no exception.”
I stare at her, my stomach turning hollow as the pleasant state of chemically induced non-worry dissipates, my head clearing more by the second. I don’t understand what she means, not fully, but I don’t doubt that she’s sincere, that her warning is meant to protect me.
Drawing back, Alina lights a third joint and extends it toward me. “More?”
“No, thanks. I, um…” I clear my throat to rid it of residual hoarseness. “I actually need the Wi-Fi password. That’s why I came out here to look for you. Also, Nikolai wanted you to set me up on your videoconference platform—if you’re feeling up to it, that is.”
She takes a deep drag and slowly blows out the smoke at my face. “I suppose that can be arranged.” Handing the joint to Lyudmila, she rises to her feet. “Let’s go.”
And with a gait that’s only slightly unsteady, she leads me back to the house.
* * *
When we get to the living room, I hand her the laptop and watch, with no small degree of amazement, as she navigates to the settings and inputs the password, her elegant fingers flying over the keyboard. If not for the strong smell of pot clinging to her hair and clothes—and if I hadn’t personally witnessed her smoking the majority of those two joints, plus however many she’d shared with Lyudmila prior to my arrival—I would’ve never known she’s high.
She’s just as unerring with her installation of the videoconference software and setup of the account, her red-tipped fingers
moving at a speed that would do a hacker proud.
“You’re really good at this,” I say after she hands the laptop to me and explains the basics of the software. “Did you major in computer science or something along those lines?”
“God, no.” She laughs. “Economics and PoliSci, same as Nikolai. Konstantin’s the geek in the family—the rest of us are proficient at best.”
“Gotcha. Either way, thanks for this.” I close the laptop and tuck it under my arm. “I’m going to head to bed. Are you…?” I wave in the general direction of the front door.
She nods, one corner of her mouth lifting in a half-smile. “Lyudmila’s waiting for me. Goodnight, Chloe. Sweet dreams.”
30
Chloe
Back in my room, I take a shower to clear the remaining haziness from my mind and change into my pajamas. Then, brimming with anticipation, I get comfy on the bed, open the laptop, and bring up a browser.
I start by looking for news coverage of my mom’s death. There isn’t much, just an obituary and a short article in a local paper reporting that a woman had been found dead in her East Boston apartment. Neither goes into details, tactfully omitting any mention of suicide. I’d already read both the article and the obituary when I stopped at a library in Ohio a couple of weeks back, so I don’t spend much time on them. Instead, I make a note of the reporter’s name and look up her contact info, then log into my Gmail and send her a long, detailed email outlining exactly what happened on that June day.
Maybe I’ll have better luck with her than with the other journalists I’ve contacted so far. None of them have bothered to reply—probably dismissing me as a mental case, just as the police had. But those were reporters at major news outlets, and they undoubtedly get harassed by all sorts of crazies. In the movies, it’s always the small-time reporter who gets intrigued enough to investigate, and maybe that will be the case here too.
One can always hope.
Next, I type Mom’s name into Google and see what else I can pull up. Maybe somewhere out there is a mention of her leading some secret double life, something that would explain why someone would want to kill her.
And maybe pigs will hop on a spaceship and fly to the moon.
I find exactly what I expected: a big fat nothing. The only thing my search brings up is Mom’s Facebook profile, and I spend the next half hour reading her posts while fighting back tears. Mom didn’t love the idea of putting her life on display, so her friend count is in the low double digits and her posts are few and far between. A photo of the two of us dressed up to go clubbing for my twenty-first birthday, a snapshot of the bouquet of flowers her co-workers at the restaurant gifted her for her fortieth, a video of me feeding lettuce to a giraffe during our recent vacation in Miami—her profile barely touches on the highlights of our lives, much less reveals anything I didn’t already know.
Still, I diligently review all of her Facebook friends’ profiles on the off chance that one of them may be a drug dealer who’s stupid enough to announce it on social media. Because that’s the best theory I can come up with.
Mom witnessed something she shouldn’t have, and that’s why those men came after her—just as they’re now coming after me because I saw them and know her death wasn’t a suicide.
Admittedly, the evidence for this theory is nonexistent, but I can’t think of a reasonable alternative. Well, I can—a burglary gone wrong—but there are way too many issues with that idea. I mean, guns with silencers? What burglars carry those?
The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that those men came to kill her.
The big question is: why?
* * *
Three hours later, I delete my browser’s history and clear the cookies—just in case I have to give back the computer unexpectedly—and close the laptop. My eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper from all the reading on the screen, and the mellowing effects of pot have long since worn off, leaving me tired and dispirited. I’ve googled just about everything I could think of in connection with Mom’s life and death, have scoured the local papers for reports of other crimes around the same time—in the unlikely case that Mom’s murderers were two serial killers working together—and have stalked each of her Facebook friends and restaurant co-workers with the perseverance of the most dedicated online troll. I’ve even looked into the death of her adoptive parents, in case there was something more to their car accident than I’d been told, but it seems to have been a straightforward case of a drunk driver ramming into them on the highway.
There’s nothing, absolutely nothing to take to the cops. No wonder they didn’t believe me when I burst into the station that day, shaking and hysterical.
I should probably call it a night and think about everything with a fresh head tomorrow, but despite my tiredness, my mind is buzzing with all sorts of unsettling questions—only some of which have to do with Mom’s death. Because there’s another mystery I haven’t let myself think about yet, one that may have just as much bearing on my safety.
Who exactly is Nikolai Molotov, and what did Alina mean by her strange warning?
I look at the pillow, then at the computer. It’s late, and I should really go to sleep. But the odds of being able to drift off while I’m this wired are low, almost nonexistent.
Screw it. Who needs sleep?
Opening the laptop, I type “Nikolai Molotov” into the browser and dive in.
31
Nikolai
The first thing I do upon arrival at my hotel is power up my laptop, open the video feed from Slava’s room, and check that my son is peacefully asleep.
He is. The car-shaped nightlight he likes us to leave on illuminates his sleeping features, revealing a tiny fist tucked underneath his sweetly rounded cheek. My heart thumps harder at the sight, a now-familiar ache spreading through my chest. I don’t understand it any more than I understand my growing obsession with his tutor, but I can’t deny it’s there, as real and concrete as my hatred for the woman who gave birth to him.
For Ksenia, and the entire Leonov viper clan.
Rage kindles in my stomach, and I wrench my thoughts away from them. Tomorrow will be soon enough to deal with their latest sabotage; tonight, I have more pleasant things to think about.
Opening a new window, I bring up the feed from the webcam on Chloe’s laptop, and a warm glow spreads through me as her pretty face fills the screen. Despite the late hour, she’s awake, her smooth forehead creased in a frown as she peers intently at her computer. She must be doing something online because I can see her browser being active, and when I go into her search history, I’m pleased to find her researching me.
I was hoping she’d be thinking about me, just as I’m thinking about her.
She has no idea I can see this, of course. The laptop I gave her is from a special batch altered by one of Konstantin’s shadier ventures. It looks like a regular brand-new Mac but comes pre-installed with undetectable spyware that allows us to keep an eye on all sorts of influential businesspeople and politicians.
Many a business deal was pushed through thanks to this handy software and the secrets it has revealed.
I watch her for a few minutes, amused by her attempts to read an article from a Russian newspaper using free web translation tools. She wrinkles her nose in the most adorable way when puzzled, and her eyes go from wide to narrow and back, her teeth frequently tugging at her lower lip. I want to bite that plump lip and soothe it with a kiss, then do the same all over her delicious little body.
My cock stirs at the thought, and I take a breath to distract myself from the heat building inside me. As enjoyable as it is to observe her, what I want even more is to talk to her, to hear her soft, husky voice and see her sunny smile. I miss that smile.
Fuck, I miss her.
It’s ridiculous, I know—I just met her this week, and we’ve been apart less than a day—but that’s the way it is, that’s the inevitability of it all. Fate brought her to me, and now she’s
mine, even if she doesn’t know it yet. If not for this trip, she’d already be in my arms, but the Leonovs stuck their dirty paws into our business and here we are.
Drawing in another settling breath, I open Konstantin’s video software and place the call.
32
Chloe
I’m in the middle of painstakingly comparing the Bing translation of the Russian article to the Google version in the hopes of making sense of three particularly confusing sentences when a soft chime sounds and a videocall request pops up, with Nikolai’s picture in it.
My heart rate shoots up, my breathing quickening uncontrollably. It’s like he’s the proverbial devil, summoned by my thoughts—or my research. Is that possible? Does he somehow know I’m reading about him at this very moment?
Is that why he’s calling so late? To fire me for snooping?
No, that’s crazy. He probably just landed, saw on the videoconference app that I’m online, and decided to check in.
Pulling in a shaky breath, I smooth my hair with my palms and click “Accept.”
His gorgeous face fills the screen, making my heart pound harder. “Hi, zaychik.” His voice is soft and deep, his gaze mesmerizing even through the camera. In general, the quality of the video is insane; it’s like a movie in HD. I can see everything, from the artful swoops in the abstract painting hanging on the wall a few feet behind his chair to the forest-green flecks in his amber eyes. He must’ve just arrived because he’s still wearing the shirt and tie I saw him leave in, but instead of looking tired and rumpled, as a normal person would after a transatlantic flight, he’s the very picture of effortless elegance, every glossy black hair in place.
